Lacey Jayne Interrogating Her Ass ❲Updated ◎❳

Lacey Jayne set down the pen. She walked to the window and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Down on the street, a couple emerged from a ramen shop, laughing, arms around each other’s waists. No camera crew. No stylist. No hashtag. Just two people, entirely unwatched, entirely alive.

She tossed the phone onto a cushion. Love you. Did her manager love her, or love the 12% commission? Did her 8.4 million followers love her, or love the outrage when she wore the wrong thing, said the wrong thing, ate a carb? lacey jayne interrogating her ass

She wrote one more thing: If no one was watching, would I still do any of this? Lacey Jayne set down the pen

She stayed there until the city dimmed, then picked up her phone again. Not to post. Not to check her mentions. She opened a private note, one she’d never synced to the cloud, and typed: No camera crew

She thought back. Two months ago, maybe three. Her assistant, Chloe, had tripped over a monitor cable and spilled coffee down the front of a rented Oscar de la Renta. Lacey had laughed—a genuine, ugly, snorting laugh—before realizing the dress was insured for $45,000. Then she’d stopped laughing. Chloe had cried. Lacey had paid for the cleaning and told herself that was kindness.